


Tumblr ficlets

by JonathansNightFlight



Category: Adam (2009), Hannibal (TV), Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Cannibalistic Socialism, Consensual Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, Hannibal Loves Will, Inappropriate use of food, M/M, Overwhelmed Will, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Soft and Cruel Hannibal, raspberry sauce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-12-18 09:45:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonathansNightFlight/pseuds/JonathansNightFlight
Summary: A collection of drabbles and shorts I have been writing on tumblr. Hannigram-centric, with a few rare-pairs thrown in the mix.Rating will most likely rise and tags to be added, with each new drabble.





	1. Open hand

**Author's Note:**

> Pragnificent posted: "I think a lot of Hannibal’s fighting style stems from his desire, as an ex-surgeon/artist/musician, to protect his hands from getting injured. (...)"
> 
> Post TWOL.

Hannibal hears Will’s anger in the staccato, heavy footsteps running up the stairs, moments before the door to his study gets pushed wide open. That knowledge does not prepare him for the snarled words that come out of Will’s twisted mouth.

“Hit me“

Before he can do anything to stop himself, Hannibal’s hands curl around each other, protectively. He allows himself to blink once, quick to recover.

“I don’t think this is a good idea -“

Will is prepared for that answer and already shaking his head ‘no’, he crosses the remaining distance to Hannibal’s desk. Hands splayed wide on either end of the drawing table, face contorted and eyes hyper-focused. Hannibal blinks rapidly and thinks, that this must be what getting cornered feels like.

“No, it is a great idea.“ Hannibal is about to reason but get interrupted again “I almost killed someone today Hannibal“ fingers pressed white, making the the antique wood creak uncomfortably “I almost killed someone, again, today“.

Hannibal schools his mouth into a straight line and shutters the tiny flutter of, what feels to him as good-natured humour, from his eyes.

“Do not.“ Will knows of course. “I can only live with you, with myself, if it remains bloodless, Hannibal“

A beat.

“I see“ Hannibal nods. With a bit more effort than he would have liked, he tears his eyes away from Will’s tense form, and starts undoing his shirt sleeves. “I trust you remember the conditions?“

Will’s smile is a grimace “Open handed is fine, Hannibal” peeling himself from the desk, he makes a wide circle around the room. He cracks his knuckles, twists his wrists, letting the bones pop loudly. “I’d never dare imagine scraping such a god-given gift”

A few seconds later, his taunting earns him a full-body, head-first slam against the desk. Hannibal was always terribly light on his feet.

Will turns slowly and flashes a rapidly blooded smile. Hannibal lets his eyes crinkle in return. This evening could be salvaged yet.


	2. Would you like to build a Death Star?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and shorts I have been writing on tumblr. Hannigram-centric, with a few rare-pairs thrown in the mix.
> 
> Rating will most likely rise and tags to be added, with each new drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super-queer-hannibal-obsession posted: "Galennic is a fun ship, but guys which Hugh/star warsified Hugh are we shipping Galen with?"
> 
> But of course, Adam Raki; the star-lover would be the perfect match for the one who birthed the star destroyer.

Adam Raki spent his childhood with his eyes pinned to the sky, counting down the hours to dusk. And once the darkness would fall he'd be at his happiest, getting lost in the shapes and colours and light of the stars.

When the army landed on his planet and made announcements about a draft, about having the able-bodied, skilled youth join some sort of building project, up in the sky, amongst the stars, Adam experienced the heady mix of terror and excitement for the first time in his young life. And since the men he worked with at the factory, decided to volunteer him, it would not be his last. The night before the fleet’s departure he stayed up watching the star positions from his window for what would be the very last night. He couldn’t understand why his father was crying so he watched the stars and fell asleep.

The first months Adam spent working on the Death Star were a loud study in frustration. He kept trying to explain the impossibility of the requirements, the error in the order of the build to whomever would listen - which inevitably led to less than favourable attention. Adam spent a month in something akin solitary confinement, and he was not too clear whether the ship’s jail was a punishment or an improvement upon the builders’ rowdy living quarters.

38 days and 5 hours in, the door to Adam’s cell beeped and slid open. Standing in the doorway, silhouette starkly defined against too bright light, was Galen Erso, the missing architect himself. No introduction was necessary, because Adam was so very good at remembering, yet Galen offered his name graciously.

Adam blinked, and in lieu of an introduction he said, with voice slightly gruff from disuse “so they finally realised that their numbers don’t match up”. Not quite a question.

Galen did not smile, but his eyes narrowed fondly.

“They” brief pause “they are not used to having an off-planet newcomer rub their noses in their errors”.

He took a few steps, standing closer to the man in the cell. Up close, despite the grey-hue of imprisonment, Adam looked much younger than his 30 years, all nervous energy and bright eyes.

“My job is to make sure that the numbers match” Adam fell back into a smoother monotone, offering his reasonable, oh so reasonable! explanation for the umpteenth time. “My job is to make sure that the equations match, and that the models match, and that the build matches the models and that the models match-”

“Adam” Galen stopped him. He moved closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was warm and solid and grounding, and unexpectedly calming.

“I understand." Adam blinked, owlishly. He was not terribly used to people agreeing, much less understanding, despite the logic of his statements.

"Would you like to work with me?” Galen went straight to the point, maintaining their almost-eye-contact. “I hear you had trouble living in the engineer’s decks. So if you'd prefer, you can move your belongings to my quarters. There is plenty of space there, and no one else to share it with”.

Adam wanted so very much to nod in agreement, but the offer was generous. Too generous.

“Why would you do this for me?”

Because Galen was back for his revenge. And in the short few weeks he had been back, minus a wife, minus a daughter, feverishly searching the logs for anything, any small oversight he could latch on to, he discovered the existence of a mind that could have easily replaced him, rendering his sacrifice null. The mind belonging to a young man that the Imperials in charge chose, thankfully for Galen’s revenge, to imprison instead of listening to.

“Because the numbers don’t add up” Galen smiled then, a faint thing “and you were the only person to see it, and to say it”. Adam’s eyes grew larger, drinking in every words. “And Adam, you will find that I am very good at listening”.  
Galen offered his gloved hand, an open gesture. “So what do you think? Will you build a star with me?”

Adam smiled, looking past Galen and into the bright light. This all made sense. Without looking he accepted Galen’s hand, jumping to his feet.

“Your quarters” he said, voice rising half an octave in excitement “they have windows, right? You can see the stars from there?”


	3. #EatTheRich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and shorts I have been writing on tumblr. Hannigram-centric, with a few rare-pairs thrown in the mix.
> 
> Rating will most likely rise and tags to be added, with each new drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannigram AU. Or the one in which, Post-fall, Will and Hannibal's journey leads them back to Paris. Or the one that earned itself the "Socialist Cannibalism" tag.
> 
> Warnings: Some mentions of murder, gore, cannibalism, poverty, socialism. Bad words.

It is a risk, but it does not bother Hannibal much, which in turn, he knows, should bother him. But even though he can clinically observe Will's impact on his thinking, his previously measured composure, there is no other place he'd rather be than unraveling at the profiler's side. And said profiler wants to see the Eiffel tower, so there they are.

And Hannibal wants to feed Will at all the dirty holes in the Latin Quarters and in every so-very-Parisian bistro scattered up and down Monmarte. He wants to whisper dirty little secrets in Will's ear under the low-light of the Dali museum and drum the beat of his heart on his lover's palm in Louvre. He wants to take him for a stroll at every cemetery and confess every cross he ever put there. He wants to fuck at every lovesack around Moulin Rouge and scream their naked immortality in full view of the Notre Dame, outside of which, in another lifetime, they'd swing like common folk or royalty.

But all Will sees is the refugee families sleeping on thin cartons on the sideways, and the casual disregard of the passerbys. Because there is one war-torn, life-stricken family in every corner, and every time they turn the corner his breath catches and he can’t make himself not look.

And Hannibal eventually stops wanting and just looks at Will, really looks at him, and he can see the clouds gathering. So he stops waxing poetics about the gallows of Notre Dame and squeezes Will’s hand briefly and gives the storm space. And by that evening, the lightening has sparked behind Will’s eyes and he is shaping and sharing his design with Hannibal in hushed whispers, under the candlelight of a boutique bar.

And Hannibal listens and recognises that he was wrong, Will’s becoming was not the slaying of the Dragon but it is an active miracle, happening every second, unending, And the design being unveiled to him is righteous and vulnerable and Will, Will Graham of Louisiana, and of the docks and shipping yards, and of Wolf Trap Virginia, with an empathy disorder rubbing his brain raw, a god-like arrogance and a keen taste for murder, is the only one who would dare think of it. And he might have a chance, Hannibal muses internally - because what Will also has is his very own, Hannibal-shaped monster.

So they cut the sight-seeing short and instead they stalk. And research. And Hannibal follows money trails with money trails and he is as giddy and reckless as he ever was. Because underneath the rich fabrics that enveloped his person suit for years, there will always be a starving orphan with hollow eyes and a mouthfull of flesh.

It is a few weeks down the line when a fish big enough takes their bait - or rather a school of fish, who happen to be throwing a banquet of celebration. Amongst them, a media tycoon, a smattering of politicians, a wife, a scholar, a godly man. And it is not a day too soon, Hannibal knows, taking in the fever that burns away in his lover’s eyes, eating away at sanity day by day.

The plan is crude - they will be posing as the caterers. In the end they don’t even have to kill the men whose place they take. Once confronted, the working men throw their aprons at Hannibal while Will is still pointing a gun at them “Fuck if I care what you do to the fat sons of a bitch! They don’t pay enough for this” the youngest one yells in heavily accented English from what he judges to be a safe distance - it is not.

They are in the kitchen, a luxurious, sleek thing. They work side by side to prepare the eclectic dishes of treats, with a twist. Will’s eyes are calm, movements efficient, following each of Hannibal’s cues with near telepathic efficiency. The slaughter happens almost organically, a natural extension of the food prep, and they continue their work in tandem, this time Hannibal following Will’s cues. It is, after all, his design.

They take pictures and videos.

A few hours later, the police is fighting to kick the press out of the crime scene - droves of hungry-eyed journalists and wide-eyed bloggers, smartphones clenched in their sweaty fingers, having somehow arrived first.

There is a protest marching down Saint Elysee. With their denim jeans, windbreaker jackets, dark woollen hats, Hannibal and Will merge in seamlessly. They join hands and walk, stealing glances of each other often. Will tells him he could pass for an art teacher with his round glasses and checkered scarf, maybe a retired art theory lecturer. Hannibal lets himself laugh at that. 

Will starts humming, face pressed against Hannibal's neck  
There I was in uniform  
Looking at the art teacher  
I was just a girl then...

And Hannibal cannot stop smiling.

They pass by an electronics mega-store. News reports are flashing on the gigantic screens. Hastily thrown-in bars censored the goriest parts of the footage but they small details slip free. The odd lifeless arm or, and Hannibal feels a stab of mirth at that, the platter of tongues he fashioned after sashimi.

There is one image they keep playing over and over; letters, scarlet, bold, blocky, stark against the ivory wall. More and more heads turn, stare. They whisper. They try speaking the words out loud.

A few minutes later Hannibal squeezes Will's hand and points his face to a sign that has appeared up a few rows down the crowd. Will's eyes widen ever so slightly, and he lets out a breathless chuckle.

“I told you it would be the most efficient way of conveying the message” he tells Hannibal “but I have to admit... I did not expect it to spread so fast”.

Hannibal doesn’t ruin the moment by sharing his reservations towards the message, nor does he draw attention on his distaste towards the words. He doesn’t point out how much more work they have ahead of them if Will is serious about the change he dreamed of, or frankly, the sheer impossibility of their task. He breathes Will in and lets his lungs swell with pride. “You are beyond anything I could ever imagine”, he exhales, words steeped in pure exaltation.

Will lets the words wash over him, eyes following the sign as the ebb and flow of the crowd moves it closer and further away. Two girls, early twenties, most likely students, try to make out the words “Eat ??” Will offers “It says ‘Eat the rich’. With a hashtag.” Hannibal sighs, and adores, and they keep on walking.


	4. Insidious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and shorts I have been writing on tumblr. Hannigram-centric, with a few rare-pairs thrown in the mix.
> 
> Rating will most likely rise and tags to be added, with each new drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal are recovering in Europe, not long after TWOTL. Will, having spend his whole life fending off people’s needs and wants and feelings, thought he had found an oasis of calm in Hannibal - because of the tight hold the latter kept on his emotions. Post-fall, and as their bodies recover, Hannibal foregoes the control. Will is not handling it well.

The air in Venice is damp with October rain. It tastes slightly off, like rotten wood. It doesn’t matter how many times Will airs the rooms of their house - a crooked stone-build, ancient looking thing, that used to belong to someone important - during the day, the air inside hangs heavy, permeated with centuries of humidity. By sundown Will feels entirely contaminated, ready to scratch his skin off.

“It is so stuffy in here” He will usually say after dinner, while walking around their bedroom looking for an umbrella. Hannibal keeps the umbrellas by the door, in their own stand, next to the shoe cupboard, and Will keeps burning circles on the antique carpets as they both pretend he doesn’t know.

“What do you want me to say?” Hannibal would respond, from behind a book or a pair of glasses, or looking outside the window at the relentless rainfall, “That you can’t keep wandering outside, because it is too risky? That you are putting yourself in danger, that you are preventing your wounds from healing? Should I just ask you to stay, plead with you?” Will would exit the room around that point, muttering something about needing to clear his head.

Tonight the air feels even mustier, more treacherous. Will thinks he feels spores of mildew scratching behinds his eyelids. Hannibal, in a calculated gesture of mercy, hardly looks up during dinner. He looks intently in his wine glass, studies his spoon, the patterns of the table clothe, as he narrates for Will the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. And Will listens, his scratchy eyes fluttering closed. But even the simple pleasure of warm soup and bread and story-telling gets polluted by the heavy moisture inside Will.

He feels congested.

Hannibal rises to clean the table and there is a minute stumble, and by the time Will’s panic subsides, he is already midway around the table, hand spread on Hannibal’s wrist - protective.

For two breaths they are both still, looking at Will’s hand. Then their eyes meet, and Hannibal’s pupils are blown, the corners of his mouth draw downwards, face becomes soft

and the moisture in Will’s lungs becomes an ocean of salt water and he is choking and walking - not running, walking - out of the room.

“I need to clear my head”

He gets light-headed reaching down to tie his boots, and his fingers go white, strangling his shoestrings. His blood is thrumming against his eardrums, but his brain hopefully replays Hannibal’s sharp exhale at his touch.

——————

Will is soaked by the time he returns. Taking his shoes off, clothes trailing rainwater, he walks the stairs to their bedroom. The twilight has given way to the sickly yellow of electric streetlights. Hannibal is seating in bed with the lights off. His face is turned to the window, shoulders uncharacteristically sagged. The light of the street is reflected on his face.

His expression is naked and Will can’t breathe.

“Stay” Hannibal says.

“No” Will bites. He looks at the floor only to realise how long he has been standing there; a small puddle of rain water is forming around his socked feet. He looks up at Hannibal, expecting what? Admonition, forgiveness, anything.

Hannibal looks away from the window, fully taking in Will’s sorry state.

“Oh sweetheart…” Will flinches half a step back while Hannibal leans forwards. Will sees him approach, hazily. He lets Hannibal remove his shirt, first off his good arm and then slowing down, one large hand firmly holding his bad shoulder in place, while peeling the shirt off. There is some respite - cold - and then Hannibal is back, enveloping him from behind, patting his damp skin dry, only a towel between their torsos.

Hannibal sleeps naked. Will never questioned it. He can feel each sharp angle, he could paint every sharp, smooth, soft shape that makes Hannibal even if he lost his eyesight.

A droplet of water runs down a curl, down Will’s forehead and nose, and at the next sharp inhale he breathes it in. It burns like acid at the back of his throat.

“Hannibal, no” Will is drowning, clawing at solid forearms.

“Breathe, my love” Hannibal full embraces him, gentle but immovable and Will’s heart is fluttering like a dying bird.

“Let - me - go”

Hannibal doesn’t. Will’s body shudders and tenses, tenses and relaxes in uneven intervals. Cold is spreading in his belly and his kidneys feel like ice.

“Ha… Ha…”

Will can’t breathe or talk so he drops his weight to one side while bringing the heel of his palm down on the other. He can feel the slight squish of Hannibal’s stomach wound at the contact and he falls to the floor, retching.

Hannibal is two steps behind him, face blank for once, supporting his weight on his writing desk.

It takes a few breathes or what could have been long minutes for Will to speak.

“I could kill you”

“You could”

Will’s teeth clench from how much it sounds like permission. He doesn’t need permission. But then he remembers he doesn’t know if the anger he feels is his.

“I can’t do this” He looks up at Hannibal, who takes it as permission to approach him once more.

“Yes you can” Hannibal makes him stand. He sways so Hannibal turns him and gently leans him against the window. Will takes in the distorted glow of the city, as Hannibal’s hands undoing his, almost dry now, trousers.

“You marvellous boy. You, whom I have seen adapt, rise and overcome every situation that should have rightfully felled you. How dare you think this one will be any different?” Will feels Hannibal’s breath, moist, in his ear. It is penetrating him like liquid heresy.

“It is you, Hannibal” Will’s words sound distant to himself. “I could never overcome you”

Hannibal smiles against his hair, and he can feel it with his whole body. He can feel it in his own mouth. God, he is smiling Hannibal’s smile.

Will’s back muscles are twitching just so, and Hannibal places a hand in the very middle of his shoulder blades and leads him to bed.

They lay side to side and Will makes himself look. The bed is covered is feelings thick as syrup and he can’t gulp it down fast enough.

“You overwhelm me” Hannibal’s eyes crinkle.

“What should we do about it, dear Will?” And Will is enveloped in wiry strong thick arms once more.

“Fuck Hannibal, I -” Will is angry and tired and his lungs are filling with every touch he chokes down. He wants … The quiet. “You are killing me” And nothing.

“Will, think” The touches are unrelenting. “Ancient Persian kings would attempt to immunise themselves against poison by ingesting a minuscule amount every day. And as we now understand, this did nothing but slowly kill them” Will wants to stop breathing but Hannibal’s breath keeps invading his mouth. “So instead of the slow poisoning that’s killing you, let me kill you wholly. And then there will be no more dying pains”.

The water in Will’s body has condensed and is gathering at the corners of his eyelids. He keeps his eyes shut, fists curled, body curved.

Hannibal softly stretches him out on his back. Working his hands open, massaging stiff shoulders. Will’s lungs are burning as Hannibal climbs on to of him, slowly letting his weight settle on him.

It is pure agony, and then Will can feel Hannibal’s heartbeat in his chest. He feels every long, steady inhale. Will’s lips are touching a patch of warm flesh and he tentatively licks the pulse there, and it is the first clean thing he has tasted in what feels like a lifetime. Hannibal slowly raises his head, just enough to slot their lips together and share breath.

Hannibal tilts his head sideways to look, only daring to put a few inches between their lips. Deciding, kisses the tears away until Will feels safe enough to open his eyes.

“How does death feel?” Will looks at Hannibal and his downwards smile and his wet eyes and he doesn’t know if he is looking at a black hole that eats all light, or maybe a lover, or the enemy, or his own self. But it is easy to breathe now, so easy, and his head is light with too much oxygen, and he can’t bring himself to care.

“You are insidious” he replies, chasing Hannibal’s smiling lips with his own.


	5. A photo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and shorts I have been writing on tumblr. Hannigram-centric, with a few rare-pairs thrown in the mix.
> 
> Rating will most likely rise and tags to be added, with each new drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A photo of young Mads appeared on my feed and this happened.
> 
> Post-fall: Will keeps a photo safe in his wallet, until one day, it slips.

Will reached for his wallet to pay for the gas, while Hannibal lingered a step behind, content with making eye-contact with the fat cat perched on the counter. As he was reaching to pet its calico head, Hannibal noticed a flutter of movement by Will. Unthinkingly he reached out, trapping the piece of paper between thumb and forefinger.

Hannibal was rarely struck speechless. And yet as he found himself staring down at a younger, so much younger, faded version of himself, trapped in the confines of a small square of yellowed photo paper, the words escaped him.

“That would be mine“ Will’s voice cut right through any semblance of thoughts crossing his mind. “If you don’t mind?“ Will’s fingers came an inch from his hand, ready to pry the photo away.

Hannibal looked up and the expression in Will’s face made him bite back the flood of words that were now returning to him with vengeance. So instead, without breaking eye contact, Hannibal took a step back and slipped the photo in his inner pocket.

Will let his arm fall to his side. He smiled at the man behind the till, turned and started walking. Hannibal, as ever, followed a step behind.

Once in the car, Will started the engine, fingers only slightly tighter than usual on the wheel.

They drove two miles in loud silence and just before the third mile, Will suddenly pulled over. He killed the engine and waited.

“Where did you find this?“ Hannibal asked, after concluding that there were no winning opening moves in this match.

“Does it matter?“ Will kept looking straight ahead. Hannibal examined the few fragments of memories from after their dance with the Dragon. He can recall some snippets of a discussion between Will and Chiyoh. Some words about the estates. About the personal affects in his inheritance. He thought Chiyoh’s betrayal should stink more, but he found the thought of her scheming with Will oddly comforting. Hannibal smiled. 

A beat.

“You are going to give it back to me”

Hannibal nodded in agreement.

“Eventually“, he offered.

“Not eventually. Now“ Hannibal shrugged a shoulder, reached for his pocket. A twitch - his brain having planted the irrational suggestion that the photo had grown teeth and would bite him if he kept reaching for it. But Hannibal was made of steel, and steel doesn’t get irrational phobias so he reached, and touched, and produced the photo. And he didn’t get bit.

He placed it on the dashboard, between them.

“Do you know when this photo was taken Will?“ he asked, conversationally.

"After” Will placed a hand on Hannibal’s thigh. “Can I have it back now?”

“I don’t think you should have it“ A shudder rolled through Hannibal, making Will’s hand briefly rise and fall again. It clenched harder.

“You think I shouldn’t have it?“ Will looked at him, eyes widening in mock surprise, words slow. “Like you thought I shouldn’t have children?” Will patted his thigh, in a jittery parody of happiness “Or my dogs. Both times - wait was it three times?” He looked deep in thought.

And then Will’s face tightened and his scar pulled one corner of his mouth up, revealing a canine and an incisor, and Hannibal felt actual ice in the pit of his stomach.

“Didn’t you give me yourself, in return to everything you took?“ It was not a question. “And does this only include your present and future?“ It was a reasonable question. “I think this includes your past as well. Don’t you agree?“

Hannibal nodded, staring at his own sunken eyes which were staring unseeing somewhere over the photographer’s shoulder. It was a month after the orphanage when the photographer had visited, at the behest of his uncle. He let the memory go, and ordered his body relax, for the first time since his younger self showed up. Uninvited.

Will squeezed his thigh and reached for the photo. He held it with gentle fingers, straightening an imaginary crease at a corner.

“What are you going to do with it?“ Hannibal felt another stab of ice. He didn’t know he’d ask until the words had left his mouth.

Will frowned, then he run a finger over the pronounced cheekbone of the boy in the picture. With measured and slow moves, mindful of his locked shoulder, he placed the photo in a plastic cover and slipped it back in his wallet.

“I am going to keep him“ he swallowed “safe”. He looked at Hannibal and there was moisture in his eyes. “As long as he lets me“. The tightness in Hannibal’s chest broke, and he could breathe, loudly, hungrily. Will run a finger through grey strands, fingers lingering over a cheekbone, silently asking if Hannibal was ok.

Hannibal nodded once more, and Will started the car.


	6. A hint of raspberry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and shorts I have been writing on tumblr. Hannigram-centric, with a few rare-pairs thrown in the mix.
> 
> Rating will most likely rise and tags to be added, with each new drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weconqueratdawn: "Hannibal feeding Will (in a nice way) is possibly one of my most favourite things"
> 
> Your mandatory food-in-bed Hannigram taster.

“No, no! Back off Hannibal, it is dripping!“

Will’s chest heaves as a thick dollop of jellied raspberry sauce lands neatly between his pecs. The sauce is just hot enough for the affected skin to flush a shy pink. With a groan, Will lets his head fall back into the pillow

“This is, unsurprisingly, a mess“

“I believe it is“ Hannibal makes no effort to place the dripping gravy boat down. Instead he tilts it a few degrees more, until another heavy dollop lands on Will’s chest, slowly spreading as Will flinches breathlessly.

“Hannibal!“ Will rests his elbows on the bed and tilts his head to one side, glaring his lover in disbelief.

“Are we really doing that?“ The stern effect is ruined by the smirk that’s playing on Will’s lips, and the raspberry stain slowly travelling towards his nipple.

Hannibal, undeterred, touches the sticky mess, dragging the pads of his fingers around in slow circles. He brings his hand to his mouth, and, tongue wetting his lips, he tastes.

“As I thought“ his eyes drift closed for a moment, and he sucks his fingers dry of the jellied substance. “The hint of salt compliments the acidity of the raspberries, without overpowering the tartness“

Another drop lands, splatters. Fingers lazily spreading the sauce, drawing a circle around the nipple, scooping more jelly. Hannibal brings a finger to Will’s lips and he begrudgingly opens his mouth, presents his tongue.

“The sauce is optimally served at 40 degrees Celsius” Hannibal continues, voice perhaps not unaffected. “But you’ve always run a bit high, haven’t you Will?“

Will sighs, sucks, and nips at the finger.

“I see you are ready for something more solid than jellied sauce“ Hannibal draws back, and reaches around.

Will’s heartbeat quickens and then -

“Shall we get started on the brie?“

Will groans. It will be a long afternoon.


	7. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and shorts I have been writing on tumblr. Hannigram-centric, with a few rare-pairs thrown in the mix.
> 
> Rating will most likely rise and tags to be added, with each new drabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From alone to the very opposite of alone. Takes place a few weeks after TWOTL - My Hannibal and Will are mildly drugged, slowly recovering, yet always soft and cruel and heart-breaking.

During one of his more lucid moments, only days after the worst of the infection clears, Will smiles at Hannibal.

“It must feel funny to you”

Will shifts from his place by the window. The armchair is supple but he has been seating still, lost in fragments of thoughts, for far too long.

“You spent three years secluded, behind walls” Will cocks his head, focusing his eyes on Hannibal’s fingers. It soothes him to see them moving, folding, turning. Each new image helps dispel the sickly memory of Hannibal’s hands spasming in what Will was certain it was a death rattle, at the moments after Will dragged them to the shore.

“And now. Now, you will never be alone again”

Hannibal pauses between two charcoal strokes

“Secluded, certainly, yet not alone”

“Alone in all ways that matter”

“So not unlike your own three years of alone togetherness” Will flinches, yet in the continuous flow of air and ether between them, there is no space for regretting casual cruelty. Hannibal doubts he will ever experience regret again. Will might stop responding or bite back, but he will stay.

“It was not like that” Will’s eyes catch his, and there is an open wound reflected times infinite.

“Then it stands to reason that our definition of alone is dissimilar”

Will turns to the window, conceding. Palms open and close slowly on top of his thighs. Every time the left hand clenches, Hannibal can almost hear the click of the damaged shoulder joint.

“Of course not. Our definitions are equal. They must be”. Tiny veins of heartache bleed into his voice. There is a flicker of light somewhere in the distance and Will is transported to

_the 4th of July, and Molly is laughing at the top of her voice “So many years living in suburbs and we never, never had this” This was the clutter of fireworks - somehow in the middle of the Maine wilderness, all their far-away neighbours indulged in shows of pyrotechnics, light on showmanship yet heavy on gunpowder “Dad, Peppermint bit me!” Walter is pointing at a shaking, shivering bump under the couch and Will is still in the midst of the chaos, and for a second he is surrounded and he is solid and present. He walks to Wally and pats his hair, reaching a steady hand towards Peppermint and then he blinks because he was expecting a white scar to be snaking down his forearm, but there is nothing there. And then loud bangs are cascading and Peppermint has already snapped her tiny jaws closed on his forearm and that is ok, because at least then the pain is physical._

Hannibal takes a moment, blinking opiate-bleary eyes. He looks down at the abstract lines on the paper - some thicker and some delicate. Hannibal realises he hasn’t used charcoal for the pure joy of leaving marks paper in years. But truly, has he ever? Through sheer stubbornness, he grasps the one thread of thoughts that shone the brightest, gold amongst tin and copper.

“One could argue that my experience of alone was cut short four long years ago, when Uncle Jack first summoned me to his office, to consult on a consultant”.

Will’s head snaps back, eyes focusing on Hannibal, helplessly reeling.

“Getting sentimental in your old age?”

“I think that I might be growing fond of you on mild opiates”

“Any particular reason?”

“There is a particular brand of freedom I believe they bring out in you. A reckless, devil-may-care streak, that I find myself taken with”

“And I believe that you have killed men for lesser offences”

“What may be discourteousness in the lips of lesser men, does nothing more than enrich the aura of your magnificence”

Will stays silent for a long moment. His eyes focus and blur and focus again, tracing the silver-gold hues the setting sun paints on Hannibal’s hairline.

“One day I will get used to your worshipful tongue, and whatever are you going to do with me then, Hannibal?”

“Maybe by then I will be allowed to worship you in charred offal, and heady wine and thick honey, as is fitting for the old and terrible Gods and you, their earthly will”

Will’s face twitches, briefly and asymmetrically, and then he turns his face to observe the still world outside the window, content. The remaining sun rays fade into the bruised glow of the sunset, and Hannibal continues the languid charcoal traces eating up the surface of the paper. He is not expecting to hear Will’s voice again for the day, so the other’s delayed response catches him by surprise.

“It is not the painkillers, so that you know”

Hannibal searches his face, curious, but Will hasn’t moved, eyes looking unseen in the approaching night.

“We caught each other, and I have been feeling freer every minute since” his eyebrows shoot up, as if his body is unable to contain the emotion “limitless”.

Hannibal lets his eyes roam the shapes of Will until his chest feels like bursting. He nods and reaches, with some effort, to place his drawing materials on the bedside table. He decides against turning the light on.

“Come to bed Will”

“In just a moment”

Hannibal gets under the covers, resting on his uninjured side. He knows that he will wake up with Will’s hand resting light between his shoulder blades, or Will’s forehead sticking to the back of his neck, or even Will’s knees slotted between the inseams of his thighs. And it doesn’t matter if that will happen tomorrow, or the next day or the day after that; since they will never be alone again, time became immaterial, their courses firmly aligned, poised for the inevitable collision. Hannibal’s eyes close, welcoming the hazy light of unconsciousness, the point where their minds touch the brightest spot of the world inside his eyelids.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by a-kent: hannibal giving a tacky dog mug to will for his birthday and will later discovering a matching mug in hannibal's kitchen
> 
> I wanted to write something fluffy and sweet and sexy. Of course my brain doesn't work this way.
> 
> Takes place between Suzakana, Shiizakana and Antipasto.

The aborted click of the gun keeps playing in the back of Will’s mind. Closer to the forefront are interloping images of Ingram’s skull fracturing, slow at first and then all at once. He feels the gore splatter against his face and he blinks; Hannibal’s hand is gentle but insistent on his shoulder.

“Come in, then” Hannibal suggests. How utterly unfair, Will thinks, that Hannibal is free to suggest, confident in the knowledge that Will would follow.

On top of the counter, amongst stainless steel and heavy mahogany, a ribbon-wrapped square.

Both men focus on the present and then Will looks away, too fast, swallowing down a guilty flicker of want.

“These are not the circumstances I had planned for, but nonetheless. This is for you, Will”. He feels Hannibal’s gaze drilling through, pinning him like a butterfly.

“Tell me that this is some kind of a joke”, vowels drawling, bone-tired.

“If that’s the case, humour me”.

Incredibly, Will finds himself walking to the kitchen counter. The present, because that’s the only thing the box could be, pretty in pink and reds, looks like the textbook definition of a “gift”. Will finds it unbearably unfair, so he crumbles the ribbon and tears the paper to shreds with clawed fingers. He finds the edges of the thin cardboard box and meeting Hannibal’s eyes he pulls, until the white insides emerge from within shredded reds.

There is something too close to approval in the way that Hannibal leans closer.

Will picks up the mug and it feels unnaturally warm in his hands.

“At least it is not a teacup”, Will says, eyes unfocused.

“Not a teacup,” Hannibal agrees.

“I am tired. So please tell me what’s the metaphor this time”.

“You drink coffee. And you enjoy decorative figurines of dogs”.

“A border collie?”

“I thought the breed would not have mattered”.

“So you bought me a mug with a decorative image of a dog on it”.

“So it would seem”. And then, subversive, “Happy Birthday Will”.

Will stays silent for a while, tracing the painting of the collie absent-mindedly. To his untrained eye it looks nice. Simple. Homey. There is no question whether it would fit right in next to his mis-matched pots and pans, his untuned piano, his dog figurines.

And then he feels another wave of vertigo hit him hard, and before he has a chance to finish spasming warm, strong hands close around his.

“Please allow me to set up the guest room for you. It will only take a few minutes, and you can drive to Jack first thing in the morning.” 

The sickly spinning in Will’s slows down, all senses zeroing in on Hannibal’s hand around his own. He nods.

By the time Hannibal walks in the kitchen the next morning, Will is gone. And so is the bone-white mug, leaving behind the shredded wrappings in a neat little pile. Hannibal cleans up but a long strip of ribbon finds its way to his dressing gown’s pocket. Long hours later, as he is about to turn in for the night, his fingers re-discover the ribbon. Walking to the bookcase, he touched some spines, perused. He picks up a copy of Kerouak’s On the Road, leafs through the pages and then, maybe finding some words he was searching for, Hannibal slips the slip of ribbon between two pages and lets the book close around it.

Less than two weeks later, Hannibal seeks Randal Tier on Will.

 

————————————

 

Will breaks into Hannibal’s house for the first time two weeks after being released from the hospital. He only makes it to the kitchen before the sense of homecoming chases him out, stomach violently spasming in acid-white pain.

He is back, and then back again, easily side-stepping the occasional police officer. It takes a few angry battles before he melts into the floor, before he lets the house console him.

Abigail doesn’t judge. She doesn’t tell him that his obsession is becoming pathological and she doesn’t pity him. He loves her all the more for that.

And does he feel closer to her in there! She guides him through rooms, talking to him about breakfasts and dinners and piano lessons. She tells him what she really thinks of the gaudy paintings. They leaf through books and notes - the ones that pick her interest - but mostly seat, breathe, resting their wounds in the nest that born them.

“I am so cold”. They must have been seating in the study for hours, the gloom daylight long gone. “Make us some hot chocolate?”

And Will walks to the kitchen, steps steadier now that the pull of scar tissue has become as natural as breathing. He is no longer scared by how comfortable he feels surrounded by the gutted counters and dusty floors; his blood has seeped into the cracks and airborne, claimed the walls. It belongs to him now.

So he rummages through cupboards and drawers looking for instant cocoa, set on his fool’s quest. Will has the hardest time denying Abigail.

And then he stills. Fingers wrapped around bone-white ceramic, he brings the mug closer to his face but he doesn’t need to see. He can feel the fit against his palms, sturdy material just-a-bit-too warm for an inanimate object. There is no light in the house but the faint glow of the city behind matted windows. He can just make out the painted silhouette of a mutt, speckled gold and brown. There is some Shepherd in the mix, Will thinks, squinting, and maybe some Chow - which company would choose to decorate their mugs with mutts? And then “Oh”.

Abigail tugs on his sleeve, eyes bright. “See?”

And Will sees, still for long moments until Abigail speaks up again, “It is time Will”, and Will places the hand-painting mug in his backpack, softly, tenderly, next to the tightly wrapped linoleum knife, before they leave Hannibal’s kitchen for the last time.


	9. Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Will has taken Abigail to Minnesota, and before the events of Savoureux, he finds himself at Doctor Lecter’s front door, one final time.
> 
> Chapter specific tags: Encephalitis, canon-divergence, ravenstag, mentions of blood and general canon-typical unpleasantness

Will Graham blinks, mouth open in a silent scream, and realises three things.

One, Will realises has a body again.

Two, his body is having a seizure. Three -

Will Graham is falling. One moment he is blinking groggily, sitting on the doorsteps of Doctor Lecter’s Baltimore house, and the next moment the ground has disappeared from under his feet. He feels his stomach lurching, salty, iodised wind pelting against his face until the skin feels rubbed off. Pain, slashing, burning, stabbing pain, is competing with nausea and vertigo, but the bloody gash of his mouth is split by a smile; Will is plummeting from the Heavens into a freezing cold abyss but he is bursting at the seams with joy. His arms clench harder against the sticky body pressed against his own and time stops.

Will Graham is a body no more. He is floating up and away as time inverts in one brilliant continuous stream. He witnesses two bodies floating up, sucked into the sky until they softly land, fit first, on the cliff’s edge. He sees Hannibal and his doppelgänger - suppressing an immaterial shiver at the bloody grimace his face wears - killing a dragon. Will witnesses everything that ever happened by the cliff house in the space of an. Hannibal biting through the man-dragon’s throat, Hannibal driving up the winding road with Abigail in the car, bloody, smiling, fearful, cunning Abigail, another young woman - carried and cared for - and an unconscious body - uncared for - before her. The instant ends as the house gets unmade, blinking away with a last image a Hannibal, smiling at the empty land with wind-swept hair and a sports jacket. Their eyes meet and Will mouths “I am dying, can you see?”

Will blinks, and he knows Molly, he blinks again and he’s spent three years in a corner of Hannibal’s cell. He reaches fingers that are not there, then, and he traces the knowing gaze of Venus. Behind him, Hannibal and Will talk circles around forgiveness and somewhere in his past he can feel his heart fluttering.

 

“Will, talk to me Will”  
The insistent if level demand, rises to choke him. There is forest around him and Will is riding the feathered stag through the gates of Lecter Castle. How can he feel the warm feathers tickling his feet. He squeezes his thighs and he feels the thick muscles of the beast ripple in response. The sun hangs low in the horizon, the shadows frozen forever long and inky, fingers of a witch. Hooves clicking through corridors, Will knows they are the last beings in the world. He feels his belly swollen by the flesh of every single creature they devoured.

“Will, I need you to breathe”  
He is no longer riding the stag, but he can still see the beast - spilling its steaming blood on the floor, just behind Hannibal’s shoulder. There is so much blood - the blood of everyone they consumed, he thinks. They are in the kitchen. There is a hand, firm, warm on his jaw, forcing his line of sight away from the beast. Hannibal’s pulse is almost steady, but his thumb is twitching as it bruises Will’s lips.

He meets Hannibal’s eyes and he lets the three realisations occur, for the infinite time.

One, Will realises has a body again.

Two, his body is having a seizure. 

Three, he knows who Hannibal is.

They lock eyes, as the tremors slowly stop. Hannibal’s fingers trace the back of his neck deliberately, over and over again.

Somewhere over his shoulder, the stag lets out a death rattle and stills.


	10. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @erodingthebluff asked:  
> i think I have a prompt..!! As you may have noticed I am a huge sucker for vulnerable!hannibal especially when he is reduced to tears and Will is there in some way! maybe a completely touch starved Hannibal after the fall and he can’t deal with Will touching him or Will doesn’t and he can’t deal with that??
> 
> So if I understand correctly, you said “Please write PAIN and SUFFERING but with more words?”
> 
> Post-season 3. Somewhere in Canada. Will is on the mend, Hannibal not as much. This is a Will that feels shoehorned. Trapped. Entirely molded into Becoming. And this is how he deals with it.

“I told Chiyoh she is no longer needed.”

Hannibal spoke the words meticulously, as he was wont to do in the evenings, when the pain would flare.

“Oh”, Will was jarred enough, he almost made eye contact with Hannibal’s shoulder. Almost. He frowned and went back to glaring at the opposite wall of the cabin, his 3-feet safe wood-pane. “When?”

“Two days ago.” Hannibal’s bed made a creaky noise, denoting the gravity of the statement.

“So we shouldn’t be expecting her back from yesterday’s, what was it?” Will smacked his lips. “Ah, supply run.”

“So it seems.”

“Or the supplies.”

Hannibal tutted. He deemed such cheap witticisms beneath them both.

“Will, I believe you should be fine to make the drive.”

Will let himself imagine the tremors of the engine vibrating his still tender, barely knitted flesh. He squeezed his eyes.

“If that’s what the good doctor prescribes.”

“Chiyoh could not have stayed. Her trajectory-”

“Spare me the damn lesson in astrophysics.” Will’s hands are clenched white. “You were just being…” he reached his good arm out, making some kind of nondescript gesture. Then again, but bigger, violent. “You were just being Hannibal.” And with that he went very quiet, letting his hands unclench, energy drained.

They sat in loud silence, both sets of eyes tracking the last rays of sun leaking the floorboards.

“All right then. I’d better get the Jeep ready. I can be back before sundown tomorrow.”

Will got up. Undressed with barely a shiver. Folded his house clothes and then reached for the borrowed thermals, the process of layering long but well practiced. Despite a crippled shoulder and a spiderweb of dead neurons. He reached for his jacket.

He allowed himself fleeting glance towards the bed.

“I trust you can ration the pain killers until then.”

“I will cherish that trust.”

Will hated himself for allowing a smile at that. A quick glance to confirm, and yes, Hannibal had noticed - damn his bastard laser sharp focus, even when swimming in feverish sedation. His hollowed out cheeks looked even more ghoulish, stretched in a smile of his own.

“Ok.” And Will made to leave.

“There is one more thing.” Hannibal’s voice stopped him the moment his foot was crossing the threshold. Always dragging him back in.

“There always is.”

“My wound. The dressing.”

Will had smelled the first hint of saccharine rot a few hours ago. Hannibal must have tasted with his most refined senses long before that.

But it wouldn’t be them if they didn’t indulge in an overgrown game of gangrenous chicken.

“Yes?”

“It needs changing.”

“I agree.”

A beat.

“And suddenly, cutting Chiyoh loose doesn’t seem like the brightest of your ideas?”

“I trust you could perform this task, with little to no guidance, Will.”

“Here it is again. Trust, such a fickle fucking thing.”

“Will, please.” A sigh. “Language.”

“Language…” Will echoed the word, dry. Still staring at a fixed spot outside the door, yet not moving - still. “Speaking of, remember what I said, what language I used last time you asked me to touch you?”

He didn’t think Hannibal would respond. The fever must have already settled, because he did.

“You were not amenable to the idea.” The words were still crystalline, but the voice was softer.

“No. Not amenable. Hannibal I said I will never fucking put my hands on you again, you manipulative, silver-tongued, soulless wreck of a man. I said I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, Hannibal.” Will’s voice shook with remembered betrayal.

“Should I be thanking my lucky stars I am not on fire?”

Will shook his head at that - and then nodded.

“Yes. So would you like anything from the shop?”

“By the time you are back, tomorrow, the sepsis will have already rendered me delirious, if not comatose. I will have little use for groceries.”

“Ok.” And then Will put one foot in front of the other and cleared the threshold. And then one more step, and another.

It was the smallest sound - a normal inhale of breath, with the softest tremor at the end - that made Will turn and inadvertently look.

A pause and then Will was walking, out of the cabin, up to the car. Checking the tires, clearing the ice. He started the engine - a morose whine and screech and he was road-born, the cabin a speck in the dusky wilderness within the first mile.

Three hours outside Quebec, in the middle of a deep winter night, a blue Jeep swerved and suddenly made a U-turn, narrowly missing a truck.


	11. Nice Hannibal (Not!Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @hyperfashionist prompted: ”how about this: nice!Hannibal, but *not* fluff.”  
> @the-bees-patella encouraged that idea, and thus, this. I am sorry.
> 
> Minor trigger warning for implied non-graphic character death(s)
> 
> Nice Hannibal, not being a sociopathic serial killer, doesn’t immediately put himself in the middle of the Minnesota Shrike investigation, which leads to Garret Jacob Hobbs continued reign of terror. Furthermore, being a nice person, recuses himself from being Will’s therapist the moment he realises his feelings. But worry not, he does leave him with a pretty solid referral.

ONE DAY AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF MINNESOTA SHRIKE’S EIGHT VICTIM - Hannibal’s Kitchen

“Alana, I am afraid there is nothing more I can do. I have officially resigned from being Will Graham’s therapist, a fact I communicated to him late last night.”

Alana started to say something, then stopped herself, a well-manicured hand pressing briefly against a rosy cheek.

“Look Hannibal, I know that he can be… challenging. Uncouth.” She looked at him at that, with a pretty apologetic smile. “I understand that this kind of company, people like Will, might not be the kind of clientele you usually get.” Hannibal had to suppress a cringe at the choice of words. Ever the gentleman, he let Alana finish. “But you are my - Will’s - last hope, Jack is not going to let it drop. He can’t handle this level of stress - and if he refuses to drop out of active duty then he needs you, he needs someone at his side.”

Hannibal nodded.  
“I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I met Will and Jack at Quantico last month. That’s why I persisted despite the rude remarks, the questionable aftershave and the repeated rejections of our entire field of study. And that’s why I have for all intents and purposes been stalking the man, been forcing myself into…” Hannibal’s eyes became unfocused for a second, a tiny smile ghosting over his lips “ah, into the role of his unofficial psychiatrist.” Recovering from his pause, he was quick to refill Alana’s glass with his personal reserve of homemade brew.

“Trust me Alana, despite any uncouthness I have gotten to care about Will’s wellbeing. Dearly.” A tiny pause, like he was about to continue, and then Hannibal shook his head once, a strand of hair bouncing perfectly. “I am not abandoning our friend without a referral. in fact, I believe that Bedelia, yes Alana, Bedelia du Maurier, a fine colleague and as I am sure you recall, my personal therapist. I trust that she will not only be able to take over my duties but will have a much easier time getting Jack to give him some much needed breathing space.”

A few thoughts danced briefly on the tip of Alana’s tongue, but Hannibal held her gaze, unwavering. Deflated, she sipped some beer, resting against the granite counter. For a long moment the only sound in Hannibal’s kitchen was the soft crackling of the apple pie baking in the oven.

“Hannibal, thank you for trying. It is just, this Minnesota Shrike case has been absolutely horrible, a waking nightmare. And it looks to me like Will has been trapped in that horror land, and there is no reaching him, no…”

Hannibal placed an arm around his long-time friend.

“There is no need worrying. Will is now at the best hands we could hope for.”

 

THREE MONTHS LATER - Bedelia Du Maurier’s Sunroom

“Hannibal, I do not assume to understand the extent of the grief you must be experiencing. But I must remind you that I am no longer a practicing therapist.”

Hannibal nodded, absently, pressing the crystal wine glass against his lips. A single tear fell from his sunken, red-rimmed eyes.

“God commits acts of horror and senselessness every single day. And before… what happened with Will, before last Tuesday, I thought I had accepted it.”

Bedelia made a noncommittal sound of agreement, eyeing the remaining wine inside the heavy-set bottle of Bordeaux.

“But I cannot fathom how, what could ever drive Will to -”

He swallowed, his face a mask of horror.

“He was supposed to catch the monsters. Not become them.” A pause. “I promised him he would never become them.”

And then, quietly.

“We failed him, Bedelia.”

Sharply, Bedelia turned to meet Hannibal’s gaze, alarmed at the nature of accusation in his tone. But she found no speck of knowledge there - just the hollow gaze of a man who lost something he’d never thought he’d find.

“Maybe we did,” she replied, letting some agitation colour her words.

Hannibal stood up, but did not move to leave. Bedelia sighed.

“Hannibal, just think that if all this world is based on is senseless chance, and all possibilities are equal, then all things that can happen, will happen. Including a world in which we do not fail Will Graham.”

Hannibal mused over the words, walking to the door.

“Thank you for trying, Bedelia.“ His brow furrowed. “But right now it seems like nothing but fantasy, that such a world could exist.”

The lock clicked behind him, and Bedelia exhaled the longest groan, reaching long fingers to grasp the Bordeaux. Hannibal used to be a man of charm and immense intellectual appeal, but he was rapidly heading towards becoming unfortunate patient accident number three. Bedelia worried the cork, looking over at what was once a warm puddle of blood on her expensive carpet, now nothing but a memory. She liked her lips at the memory. The man used to have potential, she thought, but Hannibal Lecter was just too damn nice.


End file.
